Summary: Eight simple rules for dating Greg House, as compiled over the course of an evening.

Pairing: House/Cuddy

Eight Simple Rules for Dating Greg House

by Ijemanja

She was on
the phone when he came in. She watched distractedly as he made his
way over to the couch, dividing her attention between him, the person
on the other end of the line, and her computer screen.

Covering
up the mouthpiece she waved to get his attention, pointed, frowned,
and hissed, "Feet!"

Which he
completely ignored, leaving them exactly where they were - on top of
her coffee table.

She
couldn't remonstrate him further just then, however, as she was
pulled back into her conversation. "No, Monday's no good for
me," she said. "But I could manage Tuesday afternoon... Oh
you could? No, that's perfect, I can take a late lunch." She
said thank you, and hung up, and looked back at her schedule to make
the entry.

"Dentist?"
House spoke up and then answered his own question before she had a
chance to reply. "You hate the dentist, you wouldn't have
sounded so upbeat. Not gyno," he mused, "Branson does your
pap smears and you can get her to do you anytime, seeing as she works
for you. And since your bikini zone had a run in with the hot wax
fairy just last weekend, I'm going to go with... hairdresser."

Rule
#1: Learn to live without privacy. He won't let you have any.

"You
could have just asked," she pointed out.

"But
I get such a sense of accomplishment from figuring things out on my
own."

He gave
her a pleased little smile. She sighed and went back to rearranging
her schedule - the coming Tuesday was light, not empty. She'd still
have to push a meeting back an hour, and made a note for her
assistant to arrange it.

"Sounded
urgent," he said next. "What, did you find a grey hair?
It's only Thursday, you know - sure you can last all the way till
Tuesday?"

"I
don't have any grey hairs," she protested. "Though if I
did, every one of them would be your fault."

"So..."

"It's
the dry weather lately - I'm prone to split ends, okay?"

He
shrugged. "Okay."

"Anything
else you'd like to know?" she wondered dryly, as she closed her
schedule and started returning emails instead.

"Do
you always skip out in the middle of the day to get your hair done?"

"This
place is always booked solid on Saturdays," she said, somewhat
defensively. "And what I do on my lunch hour is my business.
Besides, your idea of a lunch hour regularly includes the entire
afternoon so shut up."

There was
a moment's silence and then:

"Just
one more," he said. "Then you can go back to planning that
labour-intensive beauty regimen of yours."

"Fine,"
she agreed shortly, if only because he would go ahead and ask no
matter what she said.

There was
another pause as he fidgeted with his cane. "What are you doing
tonight?" he said finally, through a wince.

"Oh,"
she replied, as she continued to type away, "I'll probably just
heat something up for dinner, catch up on some reading... What about
you?"

"Well
right now I'm trying to ask you out. Since you're not cooperating,
later on isn't looking too promising, either."

"Get
your feet off the furniture," she suggested with a small smile
down at her keyboard, "Then we'll talk."

She had
the radio on, humming along as she palmed some product and began
applying it to her hair. That was why she didn't hear the bike pull
up outside.

She didn't
hear the front door open and close, either. His cane and sneakers
made almost no sound at all on the carpet, and both her bedroom door
and the bathroom door were standing open already. So the first she
realised she wasn't alone was when she turned her head to assess the
back of her hair in the mirror, only to jump a mile when she caught
sight of him lounging there in the doorway.

Rule
#2: Move the key.

"God!"
She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart racing from the sudden
burst of adrenaline. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Scaring
the crap out of you, apparently. Sorry," he offered in a not
entirely unapologetic tone. "You know, when I said wear
something slutty, I had no idea you'd take it to heart like this.
Remind me to give you fashion advice more often."

She looked
down at the black silk slip she was wearing. "This isn't my
dress, this is what goes under it. And that wasn't an answer - what
are you doing just letting yourself in? Haven't you ever heard of
knocking?"

"What's
the point of having a spare key lying around the place if no one ever
uses it? Besides," he reasoned, "I got to watch you
primping yourself. You'd never spend that much time messing
with your hair if you knew I was here. So does it always take that
long, or is the extra effort on my account?"

She
thought about that for a moment. The first option was just opening
the door for more comments about her vanity. The second option,
however, was even less appealing.

"It
didn't take that long at all," she said, neatly sidestepping the
question altogether, and turned back to her reflection. "Now go
away, I'm not ready yet." She wasn't particularly surprised when
he didn't move. "I haven't even started my make-up yet,"
she warned. "Why don't you go and watch some TV?"

He just
folded his arms across his chest, his whole posture screaming 'not
going anywhere and you can't make me'.

She
shrugged. "Fine. But you standing there watching me is really
off-putting, so don't blame me if my eyes come out wonky and I have
to start over. We could be here all night," she said, reaching
for a jar of moisturiser.

When she
glanced back over at the doorway two seconds later, he was gone.

She turned
around from locking the front door to see him moving towards the curb
where his bike was parked.

"No,"
she said, shaking her head in firm denial.

"Come
on," he said, "It'll be fun."

"No
it won't - look at what I'm wearing!"

"I'll
give you my jacket."

She looked
down at her bare legs and strappy high heels and said, "Going to
give me your pants, too?"

Helmet
hair, not having a death wish, nor any particular desire to be his
'bitch', were all very good reasons not to ride the bike, as far as
she was concerned. Of course, he didn't agree.

Usually,
she got out of it by always having several non-bike-friendly things
with her at all times - briefcase, laptop, overnight bag - things it
was difficult to stuff in a backpack or clip handily away like his
cane.

At times
like this, however, that strategy didn't work, and she had to resort
to other means. Like bribery.

"I'll
pay for dinner."

He
scoffed. "I was going to make you do that anyway. You don't pay
me enough to afford where we're going."

She
doubted that was true - they didn't go out very often, but when they
did she'd found him to be a bit of a traditionalist. He usually did
pay, as well as doing other uncharacteristic things like holding
doors and pulling out her chair.

But this
was different - this was a negotiation. And just like when they were
lazing around at her place and the pizza delivery guy came to the
door, all bets were off.

Knowing
this, she'd already expected he wouldn't accept her first offer.
"I'll pay for dinner, and I'll throw in a back rub."

"Three
full-body massages," he countered, "To be administered at
the time and place of my choosing."

"Two.
And the time and place can't be during or at work."

He thought
about it for around half a second.

"Okay,"
he said, turning on his heel and heading for the carport.

She
followed with a sigh.

Thinking
of what a ride on the back of his motorcycle would have been like in
her flimsy little dress, while he took what was sure to be the scenic
route to the restaurant, making sure to break a few speed rules along
the way, she decided this was really the lesser of two evils.

"Yeah,
and then I've got to give you some of mine in return. Nice try."

She rolled
her eyes. "Obligation free, I promise."

Reaching
across the table with his fork, he scooped up a small mound of rice.

"Not
bad," he said. "Mine's better."

Shaking
her head she reached for her wine glass.

"It's
your own fault," he went on. "You could have ordered
something sensible, instead of subjecting yourself to mushrooms and
spinach and peas."

"I
like mushrooms and spinach and peas."

"Oh
my," he quipped. "No good pretending you're not a
carnivore, not when I've got bite marks that say otherwise."

"Too
much meat isn't good for you."

"Neither
is denying yourself something you want. In the end, it always catches
up with you."

She
smirked. "A regular Nancy Reagan, aren't you."

"Just
say yes," he returned mockingly, as he cut another piece of
lamb. This time, though, instead of bringing it to his mouth he
reached back across the table, offering it to her.

She raised
an eyebrow. "I have my own fork," she told him, giving it a
little wave.

"It's
sexier if I feed you."

"Really."

Propping
an arm on the table she leaned forward, touching his wrist lightly as
he guided the fork to her lips, which closed slowly and deliberately
over the tender morsel on offer. Then she drew back slightly,
allowing the tines to slide from her mouth.

She
watched him with a satisfied smile as she chewed and swallowed.

"House?"

"Hm?"
he answered distractedly.

"Stop
looking at my rack."

"Say
it again."

"Nope."

"But
I wasn't listening," she protested laughingly.

"Yes
you were - I saw your little eyes light up. You only get one
compliment a day. Any more and you'll start taking me for granted."

She smiled
sweetly. "I don't see that happening any time soon."

"And
I'm going to take that as a compliment, not the veiled insult
it so clearly was."

"I
just meant that you're special. Very special." Still
grinning, she reached over to pat his hand.

"We're
sitting together. If anyone asks, this is just a pity date,
since you can't beg, bribe, or con anyone else into having dinner
with you."

Rule
#4: No matter what he says, or how he behaves, he's dating you, and
can therefore no longer deny that he likes you.

Remind
him, and yourself, of this fact as often as necessary.

For a
moment she just considered him, calmly taking a sip of wine and
setting the glass back in its place.

Then,
rising up a little in her chair she risked overturning that same
glass, as well as trailing her dress in the remains of her dessert,
as she leaned across the table, took hold of his shirt collar and
pulled him into a firm, unhurried kiss. For a few seconds she held
him there, feeling his surprise ebb away to be replaced with warmth.
And then she released him.

"Go
ahead," she said, as she settled back in her chair, unmindful of
the looks they were receiving from other diners, "Feel free to
pretend you didn't enjoy that."

A valiant
effort to muster up some ire failed utterly, and he wound up looking
more amused than anything. "What would you have done if I'd said
'no crawling under the table and saying hello to Mr Happy'?"

"I'd
say you missed your chance to find out when you called this a pity
date."

"You
need to be over a lane."

"I'm
not turning."

"Yes
you are."

"No
-"

"You
are if we're going back to my place."

"Oh."
She glanced over at him quickly before looking back at the road. "Why
do you want to go to your place?"

"Why
do you not want to go to my place?"

"Uh,
because your bike is at my house and I'm anticipating the amount of
bitching and moaning that will ensue when you have to leave with me
at the crack of dawn because I have to go to work and you have no
ride?"

She
sighed. "Well all my stuff is there," she pointed out. "And
you like eating my food, going through my things and throwing all my
pillows on the floor. It works out for both of us, doesn't it?"

"You
take me to dinner in your fancy car, pick up the bill, and then whisk
me back to your place where you'll proceed to use me for your own
gratification - you've made me your boy toy," he announced. "I'm
nothing to you but a devilishly attractive accessory adorning your
high-powered life."

She was
laughing incredulously by this time. "First of all, I'd gladly
let you drive - if only your vehicle wasn't death on two wheels - and
I only paid tonight for that same reason. Not to mention, last I
checked you like it when I use you for my own gratification."

"We're
still going to my place. Stop emasculating me and drive."

"All
right," she said, rounding on him as he closed the door behind
them. "So why did you really want me over here?"

He
shrugged out of his suit jacket, throwing it at a side table as he
moved past her into the room. "Told you that already. What
something to drink? I have red bull, and beer. Maybe milk. I'm having
beer."

She
shrugged. If he did have an ulterior motive, he wasn't just going to
tell her. That's not how he worked. "Sure, I'll have one."

"Great,
they're in the fridge," he said as he moved around the sofa,
grabbing the remote before flopping down.

Resignedly,
she made her way into the kitchen, where she had little trouble
locating the beer - there being little else occupying the
refrigerator.

Grabbing
two, she shut the door and then looking around, called out, "Where's
your bottle opener?"

"Women,"
he scoffed. "Just bring them here."

Back out
in the living room she moved around behind the sofa so she could sit
on his left. Taking her place beside him, she handed him the bottles
and watched him pop the caps off on the edge of the coffee table,
passing one to her before opening his own.

"Cheers,"
he said, clinking the bottom of her beer with his before sitting back
and reclaiming the remote.

Rule
#6: Learn to go with the flow. He's never going to be normal, or
predictable, but at least things won't get boring.

"There's
nothing on," he declared after a few minutes of frenzied channel
surfing. "Oh great and wonderful TV, why hast thou forsaken me?"

"Yes,
God forbid we don't sit and watch TV all night."

"TV
forbid," he corrected. "And what else is there to do?"

"You
can't think of a single thing, huh?"

He
regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "Wanna play a game?"

"A
game?" She grinned, shifting closer to rest her chin on his
shoulder and slide a hand across his middle. "Now that's more
like it..."

He gave
her an arch look. "Is that all you ever think about? I was
talking about a board game."

She sat
back, chagrined. "Let me guess - twister."

"Ouch.
Words can hurt, you know," he told her seriously. "And now
I'm not going to let you choose what we play."

She
shrugged. "I'm surprised you own a board game, let along
a selection. Unless they're the dirty kind you get at adult stores."

"Roll
a six, perform the following lewd act on your partner? I bet you're
good at those games."

"Is
that what we're talking about doing? Because I haven't had nearly
enough of those," she indicated her half-empty beer bottle
sitting on the coffee table.

"Actually,
I have something even better in mind."

Rule
#7: Never play Trivial Pursuit with him. He never forgets anything,
is extremely competitive, and enjoys seeing other people lose as much
as he likes to win.

This goes
double for strip Trivial Pursuit.

"I'm
cold," she said.

"I
can see that," he replied, eyeing her with a smirk.

She looked
down, rolled her eyes, and reached for another question card, reading
aloud. "Which of the original thirteen colonies was first known
as 'New Sweden'?"

"Delaware,"
he replied without appearing to think on it at all, and picked up the
dice and shook it.

"Come
on, lucky three," he said.

Rolling a
three, she saw, would land him on the square for the blue wedge. He
rolled a two, and she smiled.

Every time
someone won one of the little coloured wedges, the other person had
to remove an item of clothing. He was missing one shoe. She had lost
both shoes and her dress.

It wasn't
that she was getting the answers wrong, it was that she never got a
turn at all. He just kept making his way around the board, getting
question after question without missing a beat.

"I
should have known you'd be good at this game," she muttered,
grabbing yet another card. "Your whole life is one big trivial
pursuit."

"Nice
to see you're being a good sport about it, though. Next question,"
he said as he moved his marker over a square. "Blue."

She looked
down at the board to see where he'd landed. She sighed.

"What
was the stage name of the Hungarian-born Erich Weiss?"

He tapped
his chin thoughtfully. "Tricky."

"No
it's not. Just answer the question."

"Well
if you know it, must be an easy one. Harry Houdini."

He sat
back and waited.

She sighed
again. She still had her underwear and slip at this point, and chose
to reach behind her, undo her bra, and pull it out from under the
slip.

He grinned
as he watched her, amused. "I've got two wedges to go - that's
that pretty black number and whatever tasty little garment you've got
on under it. Which is it going to be next?" he wondered as he
sat forward again to retrieve his blue wedge and add it to his
wheel-shaped token.

"What
exactly is supposed to be fun about this?" she countered as he
picked up the dice to roll yet again. "Showing me how smart you
are? A thrilling display of the vast amounts of generally useless
knowledge you possess? I already think you're smart. This is just
making me cold and irritated."

"And
the longer you complain about it, the longer it will take me to, I
think the correct term is 'beat the pants off you'. Next question."

She
reached for a card, and stopped. Because with his smug expression,
and the knowledge that this was no doubt exactly why he'd wanted her
to come to his place tonight instead of hers - basically to torment
and humiliate her - not to mention the fact that she really hated
losing...

Planting
her hands on the table, she got to her feet.

"The
thing about games is, they won't work if no one will play with you,"
she said, and then reached a thumb up under her slip, hooked the
waist of her panties and dragged them down and off her legs. And then
tossed them to him.

"There.
Now when you're ready to do something we'll both enjoy, come
and find me."

As she
passed by on her way to the bedroom, he was simply staring, eyebrows
raised, down at the thong that had hit his chest and then fallen into
his lap. She was only halfway down the hall when she heard movement
behind her.

"Spoilsport,"
he said, as he trailed after her. "It's no fun if you go and
change the rules."

Coming
from him, it was one of the more ridiculous things she'd ever head,
her incredulous laughter only somewhat muffled as she drew her
remaining item of clothing up and off over her head in one go,
dropping it as she crossed the threshold into his room.

The laugh
subsided into a pleased smile as he caught up with her, his hands
moving around her waist.

"Glad
you could join me," she said, leaning back against his chest.

"Like
I'm supposed to resist such a poor loser," he mumbled, lips
lowered to her shoulder. "You're all huffy and demanding -
complete turn on."

One of his
hand smoothed across her stomach to grasp her hip, the other sliding
upwards over her ribs. Turning around in his arms she pressed her
nose against his throat, her body against his.

"Mmm,"
she murmured, "You're nice and warm."

His hold
on her tightened, arms wrapping more securely around her. She could
feel him breathing in her hair and she brought her hands between them
to his waistband where they nimbly unfastened his button and fly.

And as she
drew him over to the bed she smiled to herself, knowing just exactly
who had beaten the pants off of whom.

"See?"
she said, lying back against the pillow with a sigh, "Wasn't
that more fun than your little trivia-inspired power trip?"

He folded
his arms behind his head, sighing contentedly. "Sex edges out
power trip by a narrow margin. Might have been narrower if not for
that move there at the end. My compliments to your yoga instructor,
by the way."

She
grinned. "I'll be sure and tell Gordon he has a fan."

"Gordon?
That's disappointing. Here I was picturing some nubile young thing,
helping you with those extra-tricky poses..."

"'Nubile
young thing' describes him pretty well actually."

He turned
his head to regard her for a moment, before returning to his
contemplation of the ceiling. "Bet he's gay," he said.

She
shrugged. "Maybe. Don't care. I just like looking at him."

"Some
granola-eating, slacker, college drop-out..." he mused.

Propping
her head up on one hand she stared at him. "Are you jealous?"
she said, laughing.

"Of
the gay hippie? Yes. It's eating away at me inside."

She rolled
her eyes. "House, just because you look down on someone's
lifestyle doesn't mean -"

"House,"
he echoed, speaking over the top of her and effectively drowning out
her rebuke. "Are you ever going to call me Greg?"

"Greg,
huh?" she drawled slowly as she caught up with the abrupt change
in topic. "Gee, I don't know. We've only known each other twenty
years - it's a bit soon for first names, isn't it?"

"I'll
admit I could get used to the 'oh God, oh God's from a few minutes
ago, but it might be a bit formal for everyday use. And what to call
you? There's a Virgin Mary joke to be made here, but it would be way
too easy..."

"You're
the one obsessed with using people's surnames, like you're at some
snooty English boarding school. Call me whatever you want."

She winced
as soon as she said it, knowing exactly what was coming.

"Sure
thing, Cuddlemuffin."

"Except
that."

"Would
you prefer Pookie? Snugglebunz? Busty McHotpants?" She gave him
a look, trying not to laugh. "You're right, that just screams
'stripper', doesn't it? When really we should be aiming more for
'hooker'."

"Hey!"

"A
highly paid hooker," he stressed, as if it was the most
obvious thing in the world. "I mean, clearly, with your skill
set -"

"Oh,
bite me," she grumbled, and turned her back on him.

Rule
#8: 'Bite me' is not a suitable response to anything he says, no
matter how irritating or offensive.

He'll
merely take it as an invitation.

end

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